


High Risk

by Toft



Series: Risk omegaverse [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, First Time, John Reese: Service Top, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ll be indisposed for a day or two, Mr Reese,” Finch says. He sounds strained, embarrassed. “If a number comes through, I have every confidence that you will manage it. I’d be grateful if you didn’t try to contact me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to wychwood & brewster_north for betaing, and to marina & theragnarok for cheerleading as I wrote it!! I also want to give a shout out to the fic "i'll pretend my heart's not on fire if you steal my true love's name" by queenklu (http://archiveofourown.org/works/787759) which I've read about fifty million times & which influenced this fic heavily.
> 
> Content note: this story contains mention of vomiting.

Harold’s got a heat coming. John can smell it. It starts as a prickling sensation at the edges of his awareness after a briefing on a new number, after which everything feels a little sharper and more urgent, although he doesn’t make the connection until later; he thinks it’s just tiredness, or the beginning of a cold. He’s never felt anything like this off Harold at all; he’d assumed Harold was acyclical, or so low on the spectrum as made no difference. At times he’s even wondered whether Harold is really an Omega at all, or whether he’d somehow managed to fake the behavioural cues, speech patterns and subtle physiognomic characteristics as part of his long-term cover as an Omega faking a Beta. If anyone could do it, Harold could.

It’s been a quiet week; two easy, quickly-resolved numbers one after the other, no need for police intervention, and barely any violent intimidation. He sees Harold at the beginning and end of each case, and throughout Harold is a steady presence in his ear, feeding him information, making quiet comments about the number’s choice in clothes, John’s choice in firearms, the weather. And John saves people. It’s a good week. But on the Saturday he goes jogging with Bear, and stops by a bakery after to bring pastries for Harold, and thinks absently, as he walks up the second flight of stairs to the library, about how good it smells, how Harold’s mouth will twitch into an almost-smile and he’ll push back from the keyboard just a little faster than usual. John’s smiling, too, thinking about it, as his senses expand into the library’s spaces and his hind-brain blares out like a fire alarm. He stops dead in the doorway. Bear runs forward, seemingly undisturbed, and Harold busies himself with fussing over him, then finally looks up and meets John’s eyes for a second before he looks away. A slight flush is rising in his face.

“I’ll be indisposed for a day or two, Mr Reese,” he says. He sounds strained, embarrassed. “If a number comes through, I have every confidence that you will manage it. I’d be grateful if you didn’t try to contact me.”

It’s so studiously polite that John has to fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose against the headache that wants to come on. In fact, he thinks he _is_ getting a headache. The way Finch’s body is clamoring for his attention is rubbing him raw, and he’s been in the guy’s radius for less than a minute. Harold is staring at his computer screen again, but not typing.

“I’m… coming off a course of medication,” he says. “I should have warned you, but I didn’t anticipate… it’s been several years.”

He licks his lips. John stares at the sheen on his lower lip. How long has it been since Harold had a heat? He’s been on suppressants since before John knew him - for _several years_. If he’s doing a detox to give his liver a break, or to switch medication, and it’s really been that long, the next few days will be - bad.

“You’re not staying here,” John says. His voice comes out sharper than he intended, and Finch looks up sharply.

“No, of course not. I have safeguards in place for this eventuality.”

 _Safeguards_. John’s mind is alive with possibilities, suddenly; the discreet establishments that unattached, wealthy Omegas can visit during their heats. John staked one out once, waiting for a mark to reappear, with Kara making dirty jokes in his ear the whole time; the woman had emerged after two full days, glowing and blissed out. Part of John sits up and growls at the idea of other people - _strangers_ \- touching Harold, making Harold look like that, and he suppresses that disturbing thought to focus on the security risks. Those places are like sieves.

“I want to know where you’re going,” John clips out. “I want the records of every person working there. Your judgement will be compromised.”

Harold stares at him, a frown creasing his forehead. “Every person - I’m going to a safehouse, Mr Reese. I own the building, every employee has been vetted, and I have the top floor to myself. There’s no need for you to involve yourself.”

It’s not good enough. John needs to know who’s taking care of him, who Harold trusts with this. _Who he trusts more than you_ , says a treacherous whisper inside him. The Ingram kid is in Sudan and probably off-limits anyway, Carter and Fusco are out of the question for obvious reasons, and there’s no-one else that John knows of. Harold has nobody. Nobody but a hired stranger. John doesn’t like it.

“Your security is my concern, Finch,” he says instead. “If you’re going to be -” he chooses his word carefully, “- vulnerable, I need to know who’s looking after you.”

Harold pinks again, a delicate flush running to the tips of his ears. He snaps, “This is a private matter, Mr Reese. I don’t wish to discuss it, least of all with you.”

John blinks. That stings, more than he’d thought possible. Harold looks over at him then, and scrubs at his own face with a sigh.

“I’m - sorry. That was uncalled for. This has all been… I’m not myself.”

Harold’s coming off heat suppressants, and now he’s apologizing. Today is just full of surprises. John’s incipient headache is blossoming into something else; he feels a little light-headed. Harold doesn’t look great, either; perhaps they’re both coming down with something, John thinks, before he backtracks and re-examines that thought. It’s pheromones. Harold’s coming into heat _fast_ , and he should leave.

“Are those for me?” Harold says suddenly.

John looks down at the bag in his hand, and starts towards him, but Harold holds up a hand with a wince, and John stops dead. Harold looks at the desk and takes a couple of slow, controlled breaths through his mouth, and John’s suddenly aware that he went for a run, that he’s sweating and Harold can probably smell him. It feels almost unbearably intimate, and he’s burning up with the knowledge that his body has what Harold wants. Suddenly, he can’t bear the idea of Harold shaking through his heat in some anonymous safehouse with a stranger from an agency.

“If you want company,” he says, his voice gravelly. “I could -”

“I was afraid this might happen,” Harold says, eyes closed.

“I mean it,” John says, “Why not, Harold?” He tries to smile, and not to beg for Harold to choose _him_ , to pick _him._

“For God’s sake, control yourself, Mr Reese,” Harold says, now turned fully away from John, staring fixedly at the wall. He’s hard. John knows he is. “Please leave now.”

His voice is clipped and cold, rigidly controlled. John snaps his mouth shut and takes a step back, then another. He puts the pastries on a bookshelf.

“Take care, Finch,” he says. He forces himself to leave the library, one step at a time, left foot, right foot. He makes it out of the building and two blocks away before he can think at all, and then he turns on his heel and doubles back, taking a different route. Harold won’t be taking public transit in this state. He watches the library for twenty minutes before a car pulls up outside and Finch limps the few feet across the sidewalk, Bear at his heels, and gets in. He follows the car out to Brooklyn in a cab and watches Harold get out with Bear and walk to the front door of a large house with no security, multiple entrances and big windows on the ground floor. John’s about to text Finch and damn the consequences when a woman answers the door and bends to hug Bear, who’s practically dancing with excitement, and Harold’s handing her an envelope and limping back to the car alone.

Harold’s car takes him out as far as Jamaica, giving John plenty of time to think about what he’s doing. He’s sick with embarrassment at letting himself go like that in the library. What Harold must think of him, flattened by pheromones like a goddamn nineteen-year-old - _control yourself, Mr Reese_ \- but even in the cold light of day, he has serious security concerns about this arrangement. John’s seen people come off suppressants before, and he’s not sure if Finch understands what he’s getting into. He remembers the Iranian diplomat they’d held in Beirut, the way he looked after three days in a holding cell. They hadn’t touched him, hadn’t done anything except withhold his medication; his body chemistry did the work for them. He’d have told them anything - did, in fact, tell them everything. John’s sure Harold knows his own vulnerabilities as well as any security system, but Harold will be compromised. That means John has to be close, has to be ready. Protecting Harold and everything he knows is his first priority.

There’s a fancy apartment building where Finch had him hole up once when they were watching a number out here; he’d given John the impression that it was a short-term rental, and they’d never used it again, but John’s gut isn’t usually wrong about these things, and he thinks that’s where Finch is going. When he’s seen Finch enter the building, he pays off the cab and goes to ground. He eats a burrito and finds a good place with a line of sight on the door, waits for whoever’s going to show up, and tries not to think about what Harold is doing inside.

*

While he waits, John considers what he will do when Harold’s stranger arrives. Intercept them, definitely. Threaten them a little. It’ll be someone from a classy agency, discreet, highly paid. He doubts he could pump them for more than Harold’s cover identity and how much he paid, but he’s curious about whether Harold would go for a man or a woman. Probably a woman, an older one. Sophisticated. Experienced.

Nobody comes. At first he thinks they must have been already inside when Harold arrived, but Harold wouldn’t take that kind of risk. John didn’t miss them, he’s sure. There’s only one entrance. He’s angry on Harold’s behalf for a while. Then he reasons that by now, Harold could have called someone else. Slowly it dawns on him that nobody was ever coming. Harold’s plan was to wait this out alone. He’d have considered the possibility before, except it didn’t occur to him that Harold could be that stupid.

“An induced or artificial heat is like childbirth,” one of his instructors once said in a special seminar on reproductive physiology. The room was full of embarrassed-looking new recruits, smelling like alpha hormones and basic training. John was at the back of the room, taking a mandatory repeat of some credit classes he’d missed when he’d been pulled out for special munitions training. “It’s possible to get through it alone and without medical intervention, but why in God’s name would you try?”

John wonders if Harold’s done this before, if he knows what he’s in for. He continues to watch the building. He drinks a few cups of coffee, and stamps to keep his feet warm. Gradually he realizes that he’s waiting for something else, now. He has to be here. In case Harold needs. In case Harold needs anything from him.

*

Harold texts him at four in the morning.

_go home_

No punctuation or capitalization means he’s extremely distracted. John has his earpiece in but Harold hasn’t used it, which means that Harold’s avoiding voice communication. He doesn’t want John to hear how he sounds, or doesn’t trust himself to speak. John has to close his eyes for a moment at that thought.

He hesitates over whether he should respond; asking whether Harold is okay seems stupid, and offering - anything - has to be, with Harold in the state he’s got to be in by now, very close to coercion. _He checked your tracker_ , he carefully doesn’t think. _You were on his mind._ He doesn’t answer the text.

At four forty-five, Harold texts him again.

_no obligation_

John is up in a second, texting him back with numb fingers. _I’m downstairs._

The door buzzes, and a door code appears in his phone, and he’s in the elevator, chasing the shadow of Harold’s scent up to the eighth floor, trying to outpace his own thoughts.

*

Harold doesn’t answer John’s knock, so John keys himself in, willing his hands to be steady, his stomach already curling up with urgency. It’s worse when he gets into the apartment. It’s warm, so warm, and the scent hits him like a wall, desperation and sex, with acrid vomit underneath it. Objectively it’s not pleasant, but his hindbrain lights up like a power grid, dumb hunger lurching awake inside him. He checks the apartment first, then secures his weapon, forcing himself to move through the steps when his whole body is aching to get to Harold and his hands and feet are prickling as they warm up.

He’s in a worse state than John wanted to believe he could be, this soon into his heat. He’s hunched up on his side on the bed, eyes closed, his face tight with pain, and he looks like he’s been crying. He’s sweated through the sheets. The smell of arousal is thick in the bedroom, so rich and complex that it makes John feel high. He strips off his jacket and his shirt slowly and without recalling having made the decision to do so. It feels like he’s moving through syrup. When his shirt is halfway unbuttoned he catches himself, and looks up to find Harold is watching him. His pupils are so heavily dilated that John can see it from here, and he’s taking slow, even breaths that look like an effort.

“Rationally I realize that I am not dying,” he croaks. “But it feels remarkably like it.”

John’s amazed he can put together coherent sentences.

“How long has it been, exactly?”

“Ten years.”

John’s shocked enough that it breaks through the fog. “Jesus, Harold.”

Harold closes his eyes, and swallows. “I realize I’ve been reckless.”

“Try really, really dumb.”

John tries to think. The rational part of him is urgently pointing out that Harold’s a high risk for a seizure or aneurysm, that John has to take it slowly. He tries to remember the procedure for first aid to deep heat cases. _Step one: acclimate the subject to your scent and presence._ Okay.

“Harold,” he says, then clears his throat and tries again. “Harold. Let’s clean you up.”

“I don’t need it,” Harold says, sounding strangled. “Please, John -”

John closes his eyes. He’s been hard since he entered the apartment, but he’s never heard Harold’s voice tight and messy with need, Harold’s voice _begging,_ and it’s killing him.

“We’re going to take this easy, okay, Harold?” John says. “Nice, and easy. Trust me, okay?”

Harold takes a sharp, choked off breath. “I trust you.”

 _Not enough, apparently_ , John doesn’t think, and he carefully approaches Harold, helps him untangle himself from the sheets without touching him.

“Can you stand?”

Harold shudders and shakes his head at first, but then, by increments, he shuffles off the bed and stands, frowning, concentrating so hard, working to do what John asks of him. He pulls one of the damp sheets off the bed with him to wrap around himself, with frayed dignity that tugs at something in John’s chest.

“Good,” John breathes. He’s taking care of Harold. He’s going to give him what he needs. It’s easier to deal with the pounding in his head if he repeats that to himself. “Now we’re going to walk to the bathroom, okay?”

They make it to the bathroom. Harold stumbles in the doorway, and John catches his bare arm without thinking. Harold freezes and swallows a noise like a sob, and John lets go instantly, but it’s too late; he already knows how _hot_ Harold is, how soft his skin is, and he wants to touch him more than anything, more than - he has to take _care_ of Harold, he repeats to himself. He has to go through the steps.

“John, I’m going to start begging soon,” Harold says tightly. His eyes are shut. “Please don’t do anything you don’t want to do. Just - ignore me. If you need to. You know I won’t hold it against you later. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” John rasps. He forces his mind back to simple, finite actions. Get Harold to the shower. Turn on the water. Get the water to body temperature - his, not Harold’s. _Try to lower the subject’s body temperature gradually - too abrupt a change may send them into shock._ Harold stifles a yelp when he gets under the stream, and stands miserably under it, hunched in on himself.

“I’m going into the other room, okay, Harold? I’ll be back soon.”

Back in the bedroom, it isn’t easier to think. Harold’s scent occupies John’s mind fully, like an ache he can’t shift. He moves on autopilot, stripping the sheets from the bed, throwing on clean ones from the closet. He doesn’t bother with a topsheet. Then he clears the floor of obstacles for Harold to trip on, including a pair of shoes and three dildoes - apparently unused - which John hesitates over, then puts on the nightstand. Then he finds a plastic cup at the back of the kitchen cupboard, fills it with water and stirs into it a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of sugar. Then he goes for Harold’s medicine cabinet, which is really more like a small pharmacy, and pulls out a bottle of what he recognises as a prescription beta-blocker - blood pressure medication. In an afterthought, he pops three painkillers from Harold’s stash, and takes one himself.

When he re-enters the bathroom, Harold says, “John,” and follows it with a breathy moan, like he’s touching himself, and John forgets he’s still wearing clothes and walks into the shower to him. The water soaks through his shirt instantly, and he can feel the heat of Harold’s body through the sodden fabric, almost perfect, so close to him. Then Harold’s arms are around him and his mouth is on John’s bare skin, clumsy kisses along his collarbone and wherever he can reach, then he bites John’s shoulder, and John’s legs nearly buckle under him. He just about manages to get them out of the shower without injury, but now Harold is tugging at his clothes with a weird combination of determination and aimlessness, ripping off a button and then abandoning the shirt to press his face to John’s chest and inhale. John can feel his hard-on against his leg, hot through his pants.

“Your clothes are wet,” Harold mumbles into John’s skin, “you’ll catch cold,” and John would laugh if he weren’t almost hyperventilating. Harold is plastered against him, giving John almost all his weight, and he’s shivering so much his voice is shaking too.

“Okay, let’s get dry,” John says, trying to get out of his clothes and get a towel around Harold at the same time, to block out the desperate sound Harold makes when John pries him out of his arms. Once he’s detached, though, Harold huddles into the towel and watches John strip with wide eyes.

“I d-didn’t want to put you in this position,” he says, with just a hint of a stammer that takes another chip out of John’s self-control.

“You haven’t put me in any positions yet, Harold,” he points out, and Harold closes his eyes with a pained groan. John puts the table between them, for safety. _You’re through the danger zone, he’s ready,_ the hungry part of his mind is saying, and it sounds too reasonable. He doesn’t trust it.

“ _John_ , this isn’t funny, I -”

“Water,” John cuts him off. “On the table. Take the pills. Drink it slowly.”

Harold takes a gulp, then retches. “Oh god, is that - why is it -”

“Electrolytes,” John says. “I said, drink it slowly. Take the pills, Harold.”

Harold gives him a betrayed look, which looks a little ridiculous alongside his flushed face and neck, the hard-on that the towel is doing nothing to hide. He sips slowly, holding the cup with both hands, a crease in the middle of his forehead as he tries not to spill half the water down his front. With a grimace, he knocks back the pills. He doesn’t even ask what they are, which gives John a chill.

John strips off his wet clothes, and tries to gain some, _any_ mental clarity. The painkiller is helping, dulling the fire alarm of Harold’s heat into something a little less loud. Something is bothering him, something about what Harold said.

“You met Grace Hendricks less than ten years ago,” he says, and Harold drops the cup on the floor, and curses, but there’s no harm done - John wouldn’t have trusted him with anything breakable, in this state - so John doesn’t let himself get distracted. He’s groping towards something urgent, something he needs to know - “Did she know?”

“She thought I was a Beta,” Harold says, eyes closed. “She never knew I was on suppressants.”

“Harold,” John says, trying to stay calm, trying to stay on his side of the table, “Have you _ever_ been with - have you ever had an assisted heat?”

Harold doesn’t answer. John closes his eyes.

“I managed perfectly well,” Harold croaks, after a moment. “There are plenty of aids for, for people in my situation, but I failed to take into account - well - I just don’t _bend_ that way anymore,” and then in a rush, “John, I want your hands on me, now, _please_ -”

“Oh, Christ,” John says. He staggers up, and manages to get himself into the kitchen. He puts his face under the faucet and runs the water so cold it almost numbs his skin. He hears Harold follow him. Harold normally gives him his space; but Harold isn’t in control anymore. His skin is glistening with sweat again already. He’s drifting closer to John, his pupils huge, his gaze constantly drifting down John’s body.

“You can see why I was hesitant to approach a stranger to -”

“You should have asked _me_ ,” John growls, and then he has Harold against the wall, he’s got him pinned, there, _his,_ untouched and for nobody else -

Harold gasps and comes with the first hint of John’s teeth against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, scalding heat spilling onto John’s thigh, and John runs his hand through it with amazement, rubbing it into his skin, touching Harold’s cock for the first time with his spunk already on his hand. “Oh god,” Harold moans, all coherent thought obviously gone, “John, please, please, please -”

White heat settles into John’s head, and blots out all thought.

*

After some amount of time, John briefly surfaces to conscious thought. They’re on the bed, although he doesn’t remember getting there. He has two fingers inside Harold and is sucking his cock, and Harold is making these noises John can hardly process - breathy, anguished sounds as John moves his hand, slow, slow, careful. Harold’s so tight. He has his face buried in a pillow to muffle the noises he’s making, and he hasn’t met John’s eyes since the first time he came. He’s come twice more since then, but if anything, it’s wound him up further.

There’s a deep vein of discomfort running through John, his balls hot and tender, the way they get when he’s ready to knot, and his whole body is ringing with distress that he can’t make Harold feel better, that Harold is sinking deeper and further away and won’t _look_ at him. At the same time, he’s full up with Harold’s taste, Harold’s scent, the feel of his skin, drunk on it. But Harold didn’t want him to have this. Harold didn’t want to take this from him - from anybody. _Verbally reassure the subject whenever possible._ John yanks against every instinct he has and pulls off Harold’s cock.

“Harold,” he says. His voice is wrecked. “Hey. How are you doing?”

It’s so hard to think. John gets distracted by the quick rise and fall of Harold’s chest.

“John?” Harold says after a while, weak and thready.

John kisses his hip, mostly because he wants Harold’s dick back in his mouth, and rubbing his face against his skin is the next best thing. “I’m here.”

“Are you…”

“Just checking in,” John says. “How are you doing?”

Harold looks down at his face, at last, but his expression is glazed and blank, like he can’t understand what he’s saying. John looks back at him. Finally something like awareness comes into Harold’s face, and he blinks twice and looks away.

“I hate this,” he whispers.

John must flinch, because Harold says quickly, “Not you. Not -”

His hand is cupping John’s head suddenly, and John rests his cheek against Harold’s thigh and shudders as Harold combs his fingers through his hair. It goes deeper than sex, touches a chasm inside him that’s been so empty for so long that he’s almost forgotten it’s there, and being reminded of it hurts.

“You’re very good,” he murmurs. “You’re being very good. I’m sorry. It’s the heat, I can’t _think -_ and to make you do this, John, it’s, damn it what’s the _word_ , it’s unconscionable.”

“You’re not making me do this,” John mutters into his thigh. “I offered.”

“I didn’t want to put you in this -”

“I _know_ ,” John snarls, some of his control slipping, but Christ, it _hurts_ , why does Harold have to say it? He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths through his nose. “I get that you didn’t want to do this with me,” he says, keeping his eyes shut so he can focus on producing a whole sentence. “Next time we’ll find -” he grits his teeth against his own hatred of the idea, “we’ll find someone better, but I’m here for this one, so will you just let me help you?”

“There’s no-one _better_ ,” Harold says fretfully. He pulls John’s hair, hard enough to tug John’s head up. John concentration snaps like a frayed cord; his eyes roll back in his head and his hips jerk against the mattress.

“… oh,” says Harold. His eyes are huge. “You… do you like that?”

John swallows, dazed. “Yeah.”

He can’t stop looking at Harold’s mouth. They were talking about something, but it doesn’t seem important now. He crawls up Harold’s body to kiss him - have they done that before? He isn’t sure. Harold moans into his mouth and grabs his hair more, tugs it and kisses him until John is blissed out and dizzy. He wraps his hand around John’s dick - has he done _that_ before? It’s almost too much, a stimulation overload.

“Harold,” John whispers against the hot skin of his shoulder, as Harold strokes him slowly, drawing out shivers and making him leak everywhere. “I can make you feel good. I want to make you feel good.”

“I’m sure,” Harold says, between kisses, “we were saying something - there was something - God, you feel wonderful, John, you’re so beautiful, did I tell you that?”

John moans, grabbing at him, wanting to get closer. He feels totally out of control; he feels like he wants to crawl down Harold’s throat and live inside him, cut open his own ribcage so Harold can see his heart beating.

“Here, I think perhaps,” Harold says, and he intertwines his hand with John’s, sliding their sticky fingers together. It takes John a moment to realize he’s rubbing John’s precum onto his fingers, which are covered in Harold’s wet juices.

“Oh,” John says, grinning helplessly, because Harold is _so clever_. “Smart.” He pushes his fingers slowly back into Harold’s ass, loving Harold’s breathy moan as he does it.

“You have such a lovely smile,” Harold says. He sounds stunned; his voice is mostly breath. “I love to see it. I always wanted to kiss you.”

John smiles more, heart pounding, throat tight, pressing his cheek and lips against Harold’s skin wherever he can reach, and slowly Harold loosens up around his fingers. He vaguely remembers that he was upset, before, but it feels like a world away. Everything’s good now.

“Oh,” Harold sighs dreamily. His breath catches as John carefully works a third finger into him and licks his own name onto Harold’s stomach. “Is this what it’s meant to be like?”

John adds his own old name, the one that doesn’t feel like his real name anymore. He wants to mark Harold with all his names; it seems important. Harold’s never spoken this one aloud to him but John’s sure he knows it. It makes him feel happy, to know that Harold knows it.

“I think it’s meant to feel good,” John murmurs.

He’s only actually shared heats a couple of times in his life. Jessica’s were pretty mild, and only came around every three months or something. They were nice and regular, easy to schedule around. They did it together just that one time, when John took some leave and they holed up in that hotel room in Mexico, eating ice cream and fucking. She liked to take showers, and wanted to be touched all the time, long, lazy backrubs that turned into sex and back again. It was more intense for John than for her, if he’s honest; when he knotted inside her, she came and came around him, then smiled, lazy and satisfied, wiped away the tears on his face and said _you’re so sweet_ and meant it. Right now, John is able to think about her without it hurting. He smiles against Harold’s thigh again.

“I didn’t realize,” Harold says, “Everything feels…” He trails off.

John finds himself in one of those moments of clarity again, and is able to register that Harold’s much more relaxed, and that he’s trying to move more, to push back against John’s hands and do more than just take what John gives him. John has three fingers inside him and is fucking him easily, and Harold is obviously ready for more. A wave of arousal shudders through John, so intense he has to stop moving and breathe deeply to get through it. Harold makes a yearning noise.

“Don’t stop… are you all right?”

“Yeah,” John says, when he’s able to speak, “You want me to fuck you now?”

“Yes, _yes,_ ” Harold says fervently, trying to turn over with John’s fingers still inside him, as John tries to navigate his own body, suddenly clumsy. He feels lightheaded, and he rests his face for a second against Harold’s scarred back. He’s never seen his scars. He kisses his way up to his shoulder and tries to breathe.

“If I’m quite honest,” Harold says into the pillow, “I’ve wanted you to fuck me since I first met you. You’re so _tall._ ” He sounds dreamy, distant. “It’s not the kind of thing one tells one’s Alpha employee, though. Interdynamic relations are so tricky. Even one’s Alpha employee who doesn’t seem to mind taking orders from an Omega. You knew I wasn’t a Beta, didn’t you? It’s a huge turn-on, by the way. You taking my orders, I mean.”

“Shh,” John says, clinging to Harold for dear life. He knows it’s the heat talking. Harold doesn’t mean it; he doesn’t really want to tell him this stuff. John shouldn’t even listen, but he’s so weak for it now, and every word is exactly what he wants to hear, dangerous and perfect. Trust Harold to go into a chatty phase mid-heat.

“But I really consider you more of a friend, now. Are we friends, John?” Harold tries to turn his head but can’t, and instead reaches back to stroke John’s thigh. He obviously can’t get his arm back any further.

“We’re friends, Harold,” John says roughly, his lips against Harold’s scarred shoulderblade. “You should stop talking.”

“Oh,” says Harold, sounding surprised. “Is it rude? I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before, I don’t know if I mentioned that.”

“Christ, shut _up,_ ” John moans, and he reaches forward with his clean hand for Harold’s face, half thinking of covering his mouth, but Harold latches on greedily to John’s fingers and sucks on them, and John reconsiders the wisdom of his strategy when the feeling of Harold’s hot, wet mouth drives all the breath out of him again. It doesn’t even shut Harold up; he says something around John’s fingers that sounds a lot like _I want to suck your cock,_ which is when John decides he had better fuck Harold right now. The head of his cock pressing against Harold’s hole doesn’t shut him up, exactly, but it does reduce his vocabulary to _yes_ and _John_ and _more._

He curses brokenly when John starts pressing inside, and says, “Oh come _on_ , for ff- for fuck’s sake,” when John pulls out again.

“Take it easy, I don’t want to hurt you,” John croaks. “Just getting more lube, okay?” but the truth is he _can’t_ , he feels foggy-headed and aching, and he’s afraid he’s going to knot Harold straight-off. He always forgets feeling like this, but it’s happened every time; hormones get him this way. He just has to get through it.

“John,” Harold says. He grabs John’s hand, wet from his own saliva, and tangles their fingers together. “It’s all right. Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.” As if John is the one in heat; as if John needs encouragement. But John figures he’s conditioned to respond to Harold’s voice, by now, and it does help.

“Okay,” he says, to himself as much as anything. “Okay.” He lines himself up and pushes into Harold again, and goes deeper this time, but agonisingly slowly, with every shred of self-control he has.

“Oh _God_ ,” Harold says, sounding shocked. John can’t spare the breath to speak, but he feels the same way. Harold is so hot inside, and something is clawing up inside John that wants to _take_ him, to _own_ him. He means to only rock his hips forward a little but he loses his way, thrusts deep into Harold and finds the nape of his neck with his teeth. Harold hisses and tenses up beneath him, and John presses his sweaty face to the back of his neck and holds rigidly still. He rubs his hand up and down Harold’s side.

“All right,” Harold says at last. “But - slowly, if you can.”

John can. He wants to be so good, he wants to make Harold see how good he can be for him. He feels like he’s burning up, white-hot filaments running through every inch of his body. He rocks his hips, biting his lip and trying to think about anything but how good it feels. He pinches his own thigh, hard, digging his nails in. The sting isn’t much of a distraction. Harold shifts beneath him and John tries to follow his motion; at the slight change of angle, Harold gasps and moans, “Oh, oh yes, like that,” and John obeys.

Harold comes that way, silently this time, only his choked-off gasps and the way his body clenches around John giving him away. John holds onto him through it, murmuring encouragements and endearments that he can’t keep in and that he hopes Harold can’t hear. The base of his cock is swelling with his knot, and he presses up against Harold, letting him feel it. Harold moans and grinds back against him.

“ _Yes_ , go on, I can take it now,” he gasps, and John reaches for any last fragments of willpower to hold on a little longer, but it’s like trying to find a handhold on sheer glass. He groans and starts to press into Harold, his knot swelling. “ _Fuck_ ,” Harold moans, and John grabs his hand, presses his mouth frantically to the nape of his neck, his scarred shoulder.

“ _Harold_ ,” he mouths, no voice or breath to make a sound, and then he’s inside, oh, he’s locked into Harold and he’s coming in wrenching, white-hot pulses, almost too intense to register as pleasure.

After a minute or two, he’s through the peak of the storm, and he settles into a deep, grateful calm, limp against Harold with happiness and relief, and with the pleasure that spikes through him every few minutes, still enough to rattle his teeth.

“John, John,” Harold sighs, and strokes his knuckles, kisses his fingers. John’s eyelashes are wet with tears, but he doesn’t really give a fuck. Right now he doesn’t even mind if Harold sees. He feels wrapped up in warmth, a conviction of being held, even loved. He snuggles into the feeling, clings onto it. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt, and even with his head in the clouds he doesn’t think he’ll get to have it very long.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Harold murmurs. “Stay there as long as you like.”

John wraps his arms around Harold and rearranges them onto their sides, plastered together. He kisses the soft skin below Harold’s ear and Harold makes a surprised sound that sends idiot delight through John.

“You need a pillow?”

“I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

  _I love you_ , John doesn’t say. _I love you I love you I_

Harold smells so good. John breathes deeply and holds onto him, pressed as close as he can. He dozes off for a while.

*

When he wakes up, it’s to Harold shifting next to him, obviously uncomfortable. John’s knot has gone down, and he slides out easily, Harold making a noise of discomfort. His heat is already on the wane, and he smells ordinary, like sweat and come and fatigue.

“I want to - bathroom, do you mind -”

“Sure,” John mumbles, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He should try to change the sheets again or something, but as Harold limps out of the room, John just lies there and stares at the ceiling, deep in the throes of a hormone crash. He’s still there when Harold comes back and sits down next to him on the bed. He’s holding a glass of water.

“Here,” he says. John sits up groggily. He doesn’t think he wants it, but he drinks the whole thing straight off. He leans against Harold without conscious intent, his whole body still craving the contact. Harold strokes his hair, his back, and John closes his eyes in numb contentment.

“It’s all right,” Harold says again, still so gentle. “You don’t have to do anything right now. You took such good care of me.”

“You okay?” John mumbles.

“Fine,” says Harold. “I feel fine. Quite hungry, actually. I’ll order some food. You should probably eat something too. Any preferences?”

John shakes his head. Harold starts to get up, then sits down again. John realizes it’s because he didn’t let go of Harold’s hand. He forces himself to let go of him, one finger at a time.

“I’ll be right back,” Harold says. “You’re having quite a crash.” His voice is light, but John can hear the concern behind it. He forces himself to open his eyes, sit up. Harold’s watching him.

“I’m fine,” he rasps. He arranges his face into a smile. He used to be better at this, but he has the feeling Harold can see right through him.

“Very convincing,” says Harold. He gets up and leaves the room, but he really does come right back, and he sits close to John as he types one-handed, so that they’re touching at the hips and shoulders. John slowly slides down the bed until he’s lying on his side, flush against Harold’s bare leg. At some point, Harold pulls a blanket over them both. His body temperature is going down. John tries not to mind. He sits up when Harold makes as if to go down and pick up the food, though, and automatically reaches for his gun, which is under the bed. Harold recoils.

“Good god, was that there all the time? Put that down, you are certainly not in any fit state to terrify some poor delivery person.”

John dresses quickly, and stays in the background as Harold, after struggling into a t-shirt and boxers, negotiates with the door guy, who eventually brings up the food himself. He stands out of sight, his gun loose in his hand, while Harold pays him, closes and locks the door and brings in the food. It must be totally obvious what they’ve been doing up here, but John guesses Harold pays the doorman enough to keep him quiet.

John eats mechanically, shovelling food into his mouth, chewing, and swallowing. He can assess with a certain distance from his own body the chemical changes that are taking place as the sympathetic heat recedes, and food starts to replenish some of the energy he lost. He has a cold, sinking feeling in his stomach. He never thought it was possible that Harold would want him; he hadn’t thought it mattered. This morning - yesterday morning? - from the moment when he walked into the library and smelled Harold’s heat, he hadn’t had time to think; he’d just done what he had to do. But he’d had plenty of downtime, while he staked out the building. He’d told himself that having him just once would be like a bonus, something to keep him warm at night, think about when he jerks off. He’s not so sure about that now.

“I’m concerned,” Harold says, eyes on his chopsticks, “That I may have said some very inappropriate things to you while we were -” he clears his throat. “Did I - I think I may have said that having you obey my orders was a turn-on.” His cheeks are bright red, but he’s frowning resolutely. “I won’t insult you by pretending I didn’t mean it. But it puts a more demeaning interpretation on our working relationship than I would - you should know that I have the greatest respect for you.”

John gives him his blandest expression. “Do you think I should file a sexual harassment suit against you, Harold?”

Harold scowls. “Don’t joke about it. I’m well aware you have no recourse against me.”

“I could just say no,” John says mildly, trying not to laugh. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Harold, but I’m pretty sure I could take you.”

Harold fixes him with a look. “But you won’t, will you? I’m not sure you’d say no to anything I asked of you.”

He’s got John there. Harold’s eyebrows go up, and John still doesn’t have anything to say.

“You could have left me alone,” Harold mutters. “I would have been absolutely fine.”

“You were a high risk for -”

“ _Fourteen percent,_ John, I did read the studies, I’m not completely reckless.”

“The Omegas in those studies were on suppressants for five years at the most -”

“The odds were high that I would have had an unpleasant few days and come away with a migraine,” Harold says mulishly. “If I’d had more self-control -”

“I offered. You said no.” John snaps.

“I caught you unawares and you had a strong sympathetic response. You were as high as a kite.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” John blurts out. He hates how it sounds, with an edge like a whine.

Harold blinks at him. “Because I knew you wouldn’t say no, whatever your feelings in the matter. It would have been completely unethical to proposition you. And given how affected you were - I didn’t realize what it would be like. For you.”

John stares at the table, trying to sort out the ugly impulses crowding his skull. Then Harold reaches across the table and takes his hand. John looks at where their fingers are touching.

“I’m not expressing myself well. I’m grateful.” He grabs John’s hand tighter as he tries to pull away. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. This would be much easier if you just told me what you’re thinking. Do you think I coerced you?” There’s a slightly frantic note in his voice.

“I do not think you coerced me to fuck you, Harold.”

Harold’s hand is warm over his. John still wants him. He tries to do a risk assessment, but he still feels foggy and wrung out. He rubs his thumb over the soft skin at the base of Harold’s wrist. He thinks he’s fucked, but he’s learned the hard way that things can always hurt more than they already do.

“Perhaps I’m asking the wrong questions,” Harold says slowly. “John, would you like to come back to bed with me?”

John meets his eyes, startled. Harold’s expression is cautious, curious, maybe a little afraid. John nods, his spine turning to water with relief. Harold pushes away his food and leads John back into the bedroom. He lies down beside him, a little stiffly, and when he holds out his arms in invitation, John buries his face in his t-shirt. When Harold scratches the back of his neck lightly with his fingernails, he shivers and melts a little more.

“Do you like this?” Harold says quietly, close to his ear. John nods. He runs his fingers through John’s hair.

“You don’t have to,” John says thickly.

“I want to,” Harold says, still gentle. “I didn’t think you did.”

“Before. Now. Tomorrow. Whenever you want.” It’s easier to talk like this, when he knows Harold can’t see his face, even if he isn’t making much sense.

“Oh, John,” Harold sighs, running his hand down John’s bare arm. He lingers on John’s biceps, in a way that makes John want to immediately start working with free weights again. “You could have said something.”

“Sexual harassment in the workplace,” John mutters into Harold’s stomach. “I took a seminar once.” He pulls up his t-shirt to get to bare skin, and he gets involved for a while with kissing Harold in weird places. He feels happy. He feels like he could do this forever, if Harold would let him. Harold’s making breathless, contented noises, so maybe he would.

“I’ll probably have another heat in six or seven weeks,” Harold says suddenly. “Would you like to join me?”

“Sure,” says John, smiling against the elastic of Harold’s boxers.

“We don’t have to wait until then to have sex, of course,” Harold says. “In fact, it might be nice to spend some time in bed with you when I’m not completely wrecked. Come up here.”

John snorts, and lets Harold put him where he wants him.

“Mm,” Harold says, one hand up the back of John’s t-shirt. “It really is a turn-on, you know.”

“Yeah.” John clears his throat. “For me too.”

“Really,” says Harold, his eyebrows climbing, “That puts a different spin on things.”

“Anything in particular you’d like me to do?” John says lightly. It feels odd, to flirt with Harold. He thinks he could get used to it. Harold rolls to the side and looks him over appreciatively. 

“I’d like you to strip again, please. Then I’d like you to change the sheets. I’ll watch.”

John grins, and does as he’s told.

 


End file.
